


the more things change and other platitudes like that

by amorremanet



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Affection, Affectionate Insults, Affectionate Stiles, Alive Vernon Boyd & Erica Reyes, Angsty Schmoop, Banter, Based on a Tumblr Post, Belly Rubs, Best Friends, Body Image, Body Part Kinks, Button Popping, Chubby Scott McCall, College, Dessert & Sweets, Dom Stiles, Eating, Embarrassed Scott, Embarrassment, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Endearments, Established Relationship, Fat Character, Fat Shaming, Feedee Scott McCall, Feeder Stiles Stilinski, Feeding, Feeding Kink, Fluff and Angst, Food, Food Kink, Friendship/Love, Gluttony, Groping, Humiliation, I Blame Tumblr, I Don't Even Know, I'm Sorry, In Public, Insecure Scott, Insecurity, Inspired by Photography, Kink Without Plot, Kissing, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Measuring Kink, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Universe Alterations, Near Future, Nervousness, Nicknames, Non-Linear Narrative, Originally Posted on Tumblr, POV Scott McCall, POV Third Person Limited, Pet Names, Pinching, Prose Poem, Public Humiliation, References to Cora Hale/Lydia Martin, Self Prompt, Situational Humiliation, Slight Headspace, Stuffing, Sub Scott McCall, Supportive Stiles, Teasing, Tumblr: bisclavretlupinmccall, Verbal Humiliation, Weight Gain, What Was I Thinking?, chubby teen wolf, chubby!kink, fat appreciation, feederism, indulgence, tight clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 08:33:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>after that (after he puts the first fifty pounds behind them and tips the scales at a full two fifteen)… Scott starts to notice all the changes to his body so much more than he ever has.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	the more things change and other platitudes like that

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, this was going to be a flash fic written on a [tumblr post](http://bisclavretlupinmccall.tumblr.com/post/69679569129/growingmygut-benlikeschubbs-tight-belt-on-my) on my sideblog for Teen Wolf interpretations and tag feels and similar sorts of things.
> 
> Clearly, this piece got other ideas and I have no idea what the Hell happened, much less why, and I'm really not sure why it can't decide whether it wants to be a poem or a fic or kinda sorta both, but… I was pleased with it so I decided to share and here we are.

the first fifty pounds are pretty easy overall; Scott doesn’t have any trouble putting them on. he barely even thinks about them, really, not even as his wardrobe gets too snug for comfort. not even as he pops the button off a pair of three sizes too-small trousers on New Year’s Eve after stuffing himself with sweets and pastries for two and a half hours straight.

not even as this sort of thing becomes a regular occurrence, a game that he and Stiles play to see how quickly they can make Scott outgrow his jeans and how much abuse they can put the buttons through before they give up and fly away.

not even as Scott has to dig up extra money for new clothes or else let Stiles buy them for him because nothing he owns fits him anymore and he won’t be fitting into a size medium shirt or twenty-eight or thirty-inch waist jeans ever a-freaking-gain, not with the way Stiles has him eating these days and not at the rate Scott gets to packing on the pounds and certainly not if he and Stiles have anything to say about it.

but after he passes that first major milestone (after he puts the first fifty pounds behind them and tips the scales at a full two fifteen)… Scott starts to notice all the changes to his body so much more than he ever has.

he’s more aware of his belly sagging over his belt and the way it crunches down so heavy on the waistband of all his pants; he’s more aware of how they dig into his flesh, leaving behind angry red marks carved into his stomach and his sides; he’s more aware of how his tummy strains against all of his t-shirts and how it stretches out their fabric until they’re all threatening to rip apart; he’s more aware of how they ride up on him and how he can’t wear a single one of them without exposing at least a sliver of his chubby stomach, a glimpse of its pudgy underside and the way that Scott’s once trim waistline keeps swelling and expanding and rounding out with every extra pound that he accumulates.

he’s more conscious of how soft his belly’s gotten and how it’s only getting softer as he crosses the threshold of two twenty five and then two forty and eventually into the two fifty range. when Scott’s alone he runs his hands up and down his belly’s curves and jostles his copious amounts of pudge around like he can’t even believe it’s really there regardless of how much he’s felt weighed down by it lately, no matter how many times he’s sat down or flopped into bed or to the couch too heavily and been struck by how much his gut bears down on him, no matter how many times he’s woken up in the morning all heavy with sleep and weighed down by this mass that’s still so strange and new to him and felt Stiles’s fingers ghosting down his chubby cheek, heard Stiles asking how he slept or how he feels, and the only word Scott has for that question is simply, ‘fat.’

and it’s not just about Scott’s belly either or the way it sticks so far out from his midsection that it’s starting to obscure his feet. not willing to be outshone much less forgotten, Scott’s other body parts all get in on the act as well, insisting upon themselves and making Scott feel how much they change as his weight climbs up and up and up, hitting two twenty and then two thirty and then well into the two fifties range. not all of the weight accumulates along Scott's middle and his body won't let him ignore the rest of it, not even for a second.

for example there’s his expanded flabby ass and the way Stiles can’t get his hands around it entirely anymore when he gropes at Scott but has to settle for just grabbing it in parts and taking up handfuls of Scott’s flesh instead. there’s the way it spills over Stiles’s skinny thighs when Scott sits in his lap and the way it makes Scott so painfully, lung-stabbingly aware of how much more careful he has to be with Stiles: there’s the werewolf strength as always, but they’ve learned to work with that, and now on top of it, college stress has left Stiles somewhat thinning out while Scott’s gotten fat on purpose; he’s bigger than Stiles now, considerably so, and Scott has to be careful so as not to hurt him in a way that they don’t enjoy. there’s the way his ass strains hard against the seats of all his jeans until Scott’s scared to bend over any time he has to because he’s sure that the seams will split and that his pants are just going to get outright ripped to shreds.

these days, when Scott looks at his reflection, it takes him a moment to remember who it is looking back at him. even once he’s caught himself up, he can’t stop with constantly inspecting his fleshed out cheeks his flabby chest his burgeoning double chin; he can’t stop prodding at his entire body as though this might make the weight he’s gained more real to him. whenever Stiles sends Scott up for another trip down the line of their favorite buffet Scott can’t get his mind off of his thighs chafing and jiggling up against each other never mind the way they strain against his pants. every time Stiles makes him go through their special weigh in ritual, Scott strips down to his panties or his boxer briefs or whatever else he’s wearing, and he sucks in as he climbs up on the scale in their bathroom so he can see the green numbers flash up on the digital read out without bending over or making Stiles do it for him (not that Scott doesn’t trust Stiles but when he tips the scales at half a pound over two hundred fifty four he wants to see that evidence himself).

Scott only lets his belly surge back out to its full girth when he presents himself in front of Stiles’s perch on the edge of the bathtub so Stiles can snake the measuring tape around his middle and figure out that he’s clocking in at fifty inches in the waist when he used to barely top twenty nine after Thanksgiving dinner. and all Scott can think as he watches Stiles’s entire face light up at that figure (at the way Scott’s gained another inch and a little over since they weighed him in two weeks ago and hey did Scott realize he’s only six pounds off from gaining a whole hundred of them overall), as Stiles’s fingertips graze and tickle along the plump and doughy underside of Scott’s swollen pudgy stomach, as Stiles sinks his entire hand into a roll of flab and blubber that lurks along Scott’s middle, Scott casts an eye over at the mirror at the reflection that’s so unlike the thin toned up lacrosse captain who he used to be, and all Scott can think in this moment is,  _freaking **damn** , I’m getting  **fat**._

and Stiles doesn’t say so, at least not in so many words, but his affectionate and teasing nicknames all start to take a certain turn that Scott can’t even begin to find the words for just because Stiles keeps things varied and Scott never picks out a real pattern. the nicknames that he picks out for Scott all make some kind of sense or other—he calls Scott things like Tubby and like Fat Ass, like Pudgy Fudgy and like Chunky Monkey, Chubby Hubby, Plumpy, Tubs and Lard Ass; he calls Scott things like Roly Poly and Marshmallow Boy, Puddin’, Chunk and Porker, Blubber Boy and Muffin Top, and Piggy and My Little Piglet (Stiles especially breaks these ones out when they get up to their stuffing sessions, when Scott’s filling himself well past the limits that he thinks he has, stretching out his stomach until it starts to hurt and he feels like he could maybe puke and swear beads up along his neck and forehead just because it’s so much work to gorge himself the way he ends up doin;

and sitting next to him, with attentive ministrations and dabbing at Scott’s forehead with a napkin, Stiles combs his free hand’s fingers through Scott’s hair and kisses his cheek and tells him,  _god, Scotty, you’re making such a pig of yourself, you’re such gonna get so big and fat if you keep going like you are, come on, my little piglet, eat up, don’t slow down now, I know you can squeeze some more in that cute little belly of yours and don’t forget, we’ve still got the cake to get to once you’re done with all your dinner, you’re doing so well Piggy just keep eating up because you can’t have your cake if you don’t eat your dinner and you don’t get fucked into the mattress if you don’t stuff your piggy chipmunk cheeks and eat the dreaming cake_ );

he calls Scott stuff like Thunder Thighs and Cookie Monster, he calls Scott Buxom and a Plus-Sized Blubbernaught, Husky and Hefty, Chub Scout and Pear Shaped and a Bloated Little Land Whale, but Scott suspects Stiles’s favorite of his nicknames might be Generously Proportioned ( _please excuse my generously proportioned boyfriend but he wanted to see your dessert menu_ ;  _please excuse my generously proportioned boyfriend but he was wondering if you had this shirt in the next size up_ ; _please excuse my generously proportioned boyfriend but he needs another venti white chocolate mocha with whole milk and some extra whipped cream on top, and he also wants to get a venti peppermint hot chocolate, a venti double chocolatey chip frapp, and two more slices of your iced lemon pound cake_ ;

they spend almost four hours stuffing Scott at Starbucks, filling him up with sugary drinks and treats and a tomato mozzarella panini when it gets close to lunchtime and Scott insists that he needs to eat some real freaking food, something with less sugar in it before he eats himself into a goddamn sucrose coma, and by Stiles’s careful calculations, Scott wolfs down a good 8,000 calories in that one sitting on top of a pretty sizable breakfast and the enormous dinner that Stiles still has him eat because he says it’s no good for Scott to just start skipping meals, as though Scott couldn’t maybe benefit from cutting a few meals out of his Hobbit’s eating schedule, with its room for things like second breakfast and elevensies);

he calls Scott his Pudge Muffin and his Little Slice of Cake, and he calls Scott his Pillsbury Dough-Boy; he calls Scott Plush and King-Sized and Only Slightly Oversized; he calls Scott his Pudgy Wolf and his Candy Wolf and his Most Very Favorite Sweetie Wolf, and Stiles really seems to think that every single one of these is at worst funny if not outright hilarious ( _y’know? you get it right, Scotty? like how I called Derek a Sour Wolf that one time? but you’re not an asshole and I put all kinds of candy in your meal plans and you’re getting yourself all juicy, plump and nicely rounded out so logic says you wouldn’t exactly be a **Sour**  Wolf, if you know what I mean?_;

Scott knows what Stiles means, of course he does, and as punishment for Stiles making such a bullshit joke, Scott rolls Stiles over on their well worn mattress and he grinds down extra hard on Stiles’s hips, shifting up toward his stomach and bouncing on Stiles and putting every one of his two hundred sixty three pounds of flab behind his motions, making like he wants to squash all one hundred and forty four pale fragile pounds of his best friend boyfriend brother until Stiles is so winded and so knocked out by how big Scott’s gotten that he won’t run his mouth off for a good two days—not that Scott really accomplishes that.

not that he ever really could with Stiles and his perpetual need to run his mouth off about everything, his unrivaled facility with finding the right words to get on somebody else's nerves. as soon as Scott’s gotten tired out, as soon as they’ve frotted and groped each other and both come, he rolls off of Stiles, onto the mattress and his side, and as soon as Scott’s gotten settled, Stiles starts groping up rolls of Scott’s ample belly paunch, jiggling them around, and snickering as he says shit like,  _oh my god it’s like watching a freaking Jello mold… oh my god, Scotty, it’s softer than anything I’ve ever felt… just. Jesus, Scott, you’re really porking out on me, aren’t you, Blubber Butt?_ );

on any given day at any given time, when Stiles helps himself to some pleasant groping at Scott’s ass, his belly, or his love handles, he goes on and on about how much he loves Scott and his so-called curves, his “little baby potbelly” and his fluffy filled out hips; he calls Scott Corpulent and Extra Large and Rubenesque; and when he feels particularly ironic, Stiles takes to calling Scott all kinds of shit like Twiggy, shit like Scrawny, shit like Tiny, Featherweight, and Practically Emaciated—and Scott gets the logic behind all the different nicknames Stiles uses for him, but the patterns don’t fit together so well, if they’re even there to see at all.

in the morning when Stiles nuzzles up behind Scott at the kitchen counter and curls his arms around Scott’s growing waistline, sinks his palms into Scott’s rolls of belly fat and cops a feel, Stiles is all, “hey, Chunky Monkey, what do you want for breakfast? Pancakes or waffles or French toast? Whipped cream and a la mode or is that not cool for Tuesday? And don’t even think about saying you don’t want some bacon AND some sausage, Tubby, ‘cause a growing boy like you needs a good big solid breakfast to keep up his strength.”

But then at lunch with Lydia and Cora, while Scott’s squirming on the inside because Lydia’s been good about him gaining weight and about finding out that he and Stiles have been doing this on purpose, but Cora’s arching up her eyebrow as Scott starts in on his second of four appetizers (with a dinner sized portion of his pasta lunch already put in as an order and a triple thick and double chocolate milkshake for a drink and full awareness of how Stiles will make him order something off the damn dessert menu) and the way she wrinkles up her nose and twists her lemon-suckingly pursed lips says she’s choking back a comment like,  _hey, True Alpha, do you really think you **need** that plate of six whole spring rolls_ and all Stiles has to say on anything is, “hey, Scott McChubs, everything okay? Did you put yourself on some new diet without telling me about it? ‘cause I know you know the rules about cleaning up your plate, don’t you, Twiggy?”

they take a weekend trip back to Beacon Hills for October study days and the sake of getting away from their tiny apartment around campus and when he thinks that Scott can’t hear him (because even now, he doesn’t know everything about werewolves; Stiles left out certain parts about Scott’s senses), the Sheriff asks Stiles in a hushed, conspirator’s whisper if he’s noticed that Scott’s gotten kind of fat. or that he’s sort of stuffed his face and then some at every meal that they’ve shared. or that he’d already started plumping up when the two of them were here for two weeks in July for his Mom’s birthday (it’s true, Scott had put on a lot of weight by then: when he and Stiles showed up on the third, he tipped the scales at two thirty six, a full seventy one pound gain since he and Stiles started this, and by the time they headed back out to New York, Scott’s weight had climbed up to two forty four).

Hell, if Stiles really hasn’t noticed anything, his boyfriend started pigging out and he started getting kinda chubby all the way back at Christmas and their winter break. and the Sheriff thought it just might’ve been the dorm food finally getting to his waistline or his metabolism slowing down a bit and then throw in the holiday weight on top of that… (Scott can’t deny: this reading of the situation is also pretty true. by the time he and Stiles came home last winter break, Scott had gained a whole twelve pounds. he wasn’t showing all that much in the way of progress yet but his jeans were slightly tighter, trying to accommodate the extra two and a half inches on his waistline, and his abs were disappearing under a layer of warm soft supple pudge.

when they left to go back to school some four weeks later, Scott weighed in at a full one ninety; he’d hit the twenty five pound marker of his gain with the circumference of his waist clocking in at thirty four whole inches, up five from where he’d started. his little bit of pudge had started to turn into a proper tummy and although he wasn’t truly chubby yet, or at least Scott didn’t think he was though Stiles’s photo evidence tells a different story, Scott’s gain had been fairly visible. and after New Year’s Eve when he bust the button off a skin clinging pair of nice trousers that he’d worn in high school, Mom made him hit the after Christmas sales to replace some of his wardrobe for the first time. by the seventeenth, even Scott’s new jeans were starting to feel snug and he still insisted on wriggling and squeezing himself into his older tighter pairs just because the way they cut into his tender flesh made him feel chubbier than he really was, and showed off how much he’d gained so no one could deny it)…

and the Sheriff thought that Scott would get on a diet, hit the gym, lose however many pounds he’d gained and maybe come out thinner than before because Scott has always been a smart boy and a good influence though Stiles never much appreciated that in the Sheriff's fatherly opinion… but then all the pictures Stiles posted on his Facebook just showed Scott getting bigger instead of getting thin. so then the Sheriff thought he’d learn a thing or five from popping buttons off his too tight shirt at the nice place they went for his Mom’s birthday or from the way she dragged him to a doctor, got him medically chastised for letting himself go so badly… but clearly, that hasn’t happened, and Stiles, seriously: is there something wrong with Scott or what the Hell is going on with him? why’s he gone and let himself turn into the freaking Goodyear blimp.

and Scott more than totally deserves those kinds of comments, the fact that no one else has brought his weight gain up in words makes him wonder if they think they’re not allowed because it’s not like it isn’t noticeable: he weighed in at two seventy two before his and Stiles’s flight out here and his weight clocked in at fifty four inches all around; all of the hundred and seven pounds have been in soft and tender flab and with how thin and toned Scott used to be, he doesn’t buy that no one’s noticed that he’s gotten  _pretty freaking fat_. he deserves to hear things like what the Sheriff’s saying. but still Scott blushes as he stands there before the bathroom mirror; his cherub cheeks flush scarlet and the back of his neck gets a sudden spill of hear and he nudges his too tight t-shirt up over the upper curve of his belly so he can poke and prod at it, shake his own fat around in seriously oversized handfuls, as he wonders if it’s really as bad as all of that.

sure, a hundred seven pounds is nothing much to scoff at, but  _the freaking Goodyear blimp_? that feels pretty harsh to him. surely, the Sheriff has to be exaggerating—there is just no way in Hell that Scott has gotten big enough, has let himself get fat enough, to merit any words like that.

and he’s not sure what he expects from Stiles but Scott’s heart skips a best when he tells his father with a shrug that’s audible from here, “no? like no, Dad, seriously, there’s nothing wrong with Scott? so what, he’s put on a couple extra pounds. he’s happy and I’m happy with him and we’re both happy with his body the way it is and all of that’s what really matters, right?”

Scott isn’t sure what he expects from Stiles but relief, contentment, and a fucking load of gratitude wash over him when he hears Stiles tell his father that. They repeat the process one more time when Mom corners Stiles to ask him how much weight Scott’s gained since July and if anything’s going wrong with him, and once more, Stiles shrugs and just says that he and Scott are happy and really, Scott’s really not that fat, y’know? like sure, okay, fine, he’s gotten pretty fat especially compared to what he used to weigh and the weight’s come on pretty quickly for him and she won’t hear Stiles deny any of that because Stiles _can’t_ deny any of that and he can’t deny any ot that because every single word of it is fucking  _true_. but on the other hand?

see, on the other hand, Scott’s happy for once—he’s happier than Stiles has ever seen him and the two of them have only known each other since they were four so hey whatever what does Stiles know about Scott Agustín Delgado McCall or his history with happiness. on top of that, Scott’s learning to take it easy and to let himself breathe and for the first time in a long time, Stiles hasn’t really had to worry that he’s lying when he says that he’s okay. and he’s healthy, Ms. McCall, Stiles promises he is because Stiles makes sure that he stays pretty active, they get out and go for walks because sure Scott wants to be fat but he doesn’t want to get there in the ways that are most likely to kill him faster, and Stiles looks out for what Scott eats and makes sure that he doesn’t only fatten up on junk.

 _Don’t worry, Ms. McCall_ , he tells her.  _I mean, yeah, okay. There’s a lot of junk food in his diet these days and not a lot of cross country or lacrosse to compensate but he’s taking care of himself, he really is, and if he ever slips up on that or he needs a day off from it or something, then I’m there to take care of him for him._

(Scott blows Stiles twice that night for saying this to her, for standing up to Mom about what Scott wants and about what they’ve been doing and about this thing that they’ve fallen into with trying to make Scott’s body fatter. he works his mouth up and down Stiles’s cock diligently, snakes his tongue around the skin and veins, lets Stiles fuck into his throat and even gets Stiles started on that. and on both occasions, Scott swallows like a good boy because every opportunity to get more calories is one Scott needs to take, even if it’s just the calories lacing Stiles’s come.)

but after eleven and a half whole months of gaining weight the way he has, after fifty weeks of trying to get bigger softer plumper fatter, after Scott’s well and truly past crossing the condemning marker of letting himself put on a full one hundred pounds and then some, Scott can’t keep squashing down the mixed things that he’s feeling.

on Halloween night itself, two weeks off from his gaining anniversary, when Scott weighs in at two eighty one and his waistline measures just slightly over fifty right inches around, at first he’s staggered with his progress and never mind impressed. and it hangs around him for a couple hours, the cloud nine aftermath of realizing how many pounds he’s put on since last November, and he’s in a daze or something as he devours calorie laden treat after calorie laden treat without Stiles even needing to tell him what to eat. Scott gorges himself on candy and on leftover casserole; he packs in all the king packages of Reese’s cups that Stiles has left hiding for him all around the house; he makes a pig of himself and binges on three pints of Ben and Jerry’s; and he devours a four egg omelette with an extra side of bacon from their favorite diner.

after everything Scott treats himself to on his own, it’s really no surprise when he busts the button off a pair of jeans from how much Stiles expects him to scarf down for dinner (a feast including a whole extra large pizza and that’s really just for starters and Scott groans as Stiles trots out two more pints of Häagen-Dazs with whipped cream and with, a huge bowl of Halloween candy, and a bunch of brownies that Erica made for Scott because she of all their Pack encourages his gain the most, except for Stiles). and for all he groans about how freaking full he is, Scott doesn’t argue or put up a fuss, not really. he just shovels down whatever Stiles gives him to eat and starts to relish in the pain of making himself so full, stretching his stomach out well past its limits, until he has to spend nigh on an hour pinned down to his kitchen chair because of how heavy he’s let his stomach get and how much work it had to do digesting.

but when Scott’s recovered to help Stiles pry his fat ass off the chair, once he’s flopped out in their bed and dozing off the evening’s stuffing session, letting Stiles rub his belly but hearing Mom’s voice and the Sheriff’s echoing around his skull, seeing visions of Cora’s sneer and the disparaging arch of her eyebrow, Scott just can’t help it. he can’t keep quiet anymore, and he just blurts out: “how much longer are we really gonna do this Stiles?”

Stiles pauses his gentle attentive kneading of Scott’s stretched taut stomach and blinks down at him for a lengthy moment until finally, he splutters, “Scotty, what the Hell are you talking about right now?”

"this," Scott says again as though repeating it makes everything more clear, then whines as Stiles works his nimble fingers over a particularly sensitive spot, one where Scott’s stomach is especially full. "you know what I mean by that. I mean, this thing that we’ve been doing all year. With all the eating and all the weighing and all the measuring, all the making me get fat like this? I’ve put on a hundred and sixteen pounds by now and if we keep going like tonight I’m only going to get even bigger, you know that, right? I can’t even top you like I used to because I get kinda winded now, and I’m close enough to straight up crushing you in some pretty unsexy ways already but what happens when I hit two eighty five? And what about when I hit two ninety? What about three hundred pounds or more? Because I’m gonna get there soon enough with the way that I’ve been gaining—Hell, I might break three hundred before Christmas and I just… Will you still be into me if I ever get up past three hundred pounds? or is this gonna stop some day when I finally get too fat for you?"

and Scott sighs and he can feel his insides squirming, and all Stiles does is huff and climb up onto Scott’s hips. he straddles Scott and digs his bony thighs into Scott’s fleshy hips; he stretches out across Scott’s belly and bends down to kiss him, all deep and thoroughly and sucking on Scott’s tongue and running his fingers through Scott’s hair like the world could stop turning and Stiles wouldn’t even notice.

"hey, Chunky. Lard Butt. Cookie Monster the Generously Proportioned. Sweetie Wolf. Scotty McHottie," he whispers hot and heavily into Scott’s mouth. "How about you shut up and freaking listen to me on this, okay?"

he pauses for a moment but only for long enough to grab a handful of Scott’s flab and jostle it around as softly as their morning wakeup kisses. “Scott, we are gonna keep this up for as long as you want to keep it up. and whenever you want to stop is fine with me. and I’m gonna love you and still want to fuck you even if you get to be freaking four hundred pounds or more, okay? Because you’re my  _Scott_  and I don’t know what I’d do without you, I don’t care fat you get or how much you want to weigh.”

and Scott thinks he should have something to say to a response like that. He should have some kind of words that convey all the things he feels about Stiles, the way that kissing Stiles always feels better than the moment when Scott’s surpassed a gaining milestone, the way one grin out of Stiles still makes Scott’s head start swimming with a need to just immerse himself in Stiles and to make Stiles smile somewhat less mischievously. or at least Scott ought to do more than just blink dazedly up at his  _Stiles_ , feeling like his tongue’s gone Novocaine thick and the inside of his mouth is lined with peanut butter.

Scott settles for just kissing him, and by the time they head back to Beacon Hills for Christmas, his weight’s climbed up to three oh three.


End file.
